


Budgie Smugglers and the Spewing Bitzer

by wyntera



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Overskins zine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-18 02:54:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18111797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyntera/pseuds/wyntera
Summary: All Jamison wants is a little rest and relaxation. Maybe he should keep his fingers to himself.





	Budgie Smugglers and the Spewing Bitzer

**Author's Note:**

> My piece for the Overskins zine! I did a piece for the Defense section, and I couldn't resist my favorite Aussie. Enjoy!

“Roadie, I swear, if you walked off with--aha!” Jamison snatches up the tube of zinc oxide on the back of the sink. “Been lookin’ all over for ya, mate.”

Unscrewing the cap from the lotion, he has to commend himself once again for his own brilliance. What better place to lay low after a successful heist than in a five-star resort? No one will think to look for a pair of junkers in an ace place like this. It has everything: air conditioning, turn-down service, about sixteen pillows on each bed. Last night for dinner he had room service and they brought a chocolate cake with gold flakes on top! What a ripper!

Of course, Jamison would have preferred somewhere warmer. He originally imagined hitting the turps on a sandy shore, maybe nicking a yacht on the way out to the next job. But it was not his turn to choose the hideout, and Roadie’s heart had been set on somewhere far away from heat and humidity. He had also mentioned lowering his blood pressure, a jibe that Jamison has heard enough to ignore. So here they are at an isolated mountain resort and spa complete with natural hot springs and far too much peace and quiet for Jamison’s liking.

Right now Mako is out doing tai chi or thai tea or tae kwon do--he wasn’t really paying attention--leaving Jamison to his own devices. And there is an indoor pool right outside their room calling his name.

Stepping back from the bathroom sink, Jamison does a quick check in the mirror. Swim trunks? Check. Floaties? Check. Sunscreen? You can never be too careful! He slides on a pair of yellow-rimmed plastic sunglasses he pocketed from a convenience store and shoots himself a grin. “Lookin’ good!”

The sudden bang of the hotel room door flinging open and smacking the wall makes Jamison flinch. He glares at his reflection before stalking out. “Bloody hell, Roadie, make a little more noise why dontcha--”

His words die when he turns and sees not Mako silhouetted in the doorway, but rather someone else. Or something else. A ragged human figure fills the space, spine curled forward, sharp hands gripping either side of the doorframe to prevent escape. Fur grows from the shoulders up, thick tufts covering the head up to its pointed canine ears. Gold, dead eyes stare back.

With a growl, the creature slings the door shut.

“Wolfman!” Jamison shrieks, stepping backward onto his rubber duckie inner tube and tripping into the pile of loot stacked next to the dresser. His frag launcher is across the room so he’ll have to make do. Grabbing at random, he starts chucking anything he can lay his hands on at the advancing monster: a large wrench, a bejeweled hairpin, even a bird plushie. The creature does not even bother to dodge the toy, letting it bounce off its shoulder with a soft squeak.

The forge hammer Jamison stole from that Swede is heavier than it looks but he still hefts it like a cricket bat. “You ain’t eating me, you drongo! Come on! Bring it--ack!”

With deft precision the wolfman attacks. Jamison takes three swift strikes to the ribs before he even gets the hammer in motion, the weapon so unwieldy that the swing has no momentum. The monster catches it by the shaft and Jamison finds himself disarmed. With no other options, he lashes out with flailing arms and kicking legs. He even manages to get some teeth involved before being lifted off the ground and slammed into the wall.

Jamison tries to talk but all that comes out is a gurgle. He claws at the forearm braced over his windpipe until the arm eases back enough for him to speak. “Alright, hang on now! Let’s be reasonable,” he pants. “No need to eat me! I can get you all the steak you want! Filet? Porterhouse? Whatever you like--hey, wait a tick.” Jamison squints at the monster, the decidedly shorter monster with human hands and a familiar disapproving frown below the wolf face. “Oh, it’s you!”

Hanzo Shimada, heir to the Shimada Empire, master of dragons, infamous assassin and all-around pain in Jamison’s ass, bares his teeth from under that ridiculous wolf head. “Did you think I would not find you?”

“Not so fast,” Jamison replies, beaky nose wrinkling when the odor of damp fur hits his nostrils. “Crikey, what’d you do? Sneak up the whole bloody mountain range in that get-up? You smell like a bitzer. You know you could have just walked in like a normal bloke, not a derro--can’t breathe!”

“Where is it?” Hanzo snarls in his face, pressing on Jamison’s throat hard enough to bruise.

Jamison kicks out, landing a solid hit on Hanzo’s shin. The other man does not even flinch. Struggling won’t do any good so Jamison goes limp, and the pressure eases in response. “Where’s what?” he pants.

“What you stole from me.”

“Are you accusing me of stealing from a business partner?! I may be a junker but I’ve got standards--”

Hanzo cuts him off with another hard shake that makes Jamison’s head bounce against the drywall. “Do not make me repeat myself!”

As pain radiates through his skull, Jamison admits that feigning ignorance might not get him out of this one. The question is, what did he steal from Shimada that would make him as mad as a cut snake? He steals a lot of things every day; no one should expect him to keep track of what he took and from whom. And Hanzo never had many possessions to begin with, other than his weapon and the clothes on his back--ah, that’s it!

“You mean that stupid bracelet? It’s right over there,” Jamison says, head jerking toward the side table. He scrambles not to fall when Hanzo releases him, knocking both real and imagined dust from his shoulders. “All this fuss over that little thing? It’s not worth a Zack.”

Hanzo plucks the bracelet from the pile of odds and ends scattered on the table and inspects it for damage. When Jamison first saw it on Hanzo’s wrist he assumed it must be made of expensive metals or have hidden compartments. Finding out it was nothing more than cheap wooden beads on a string of elastic so worn out it had lost its tension was disappointing. The way Hanzo runs his fingers over the weathered wood has Jamison questioning if there was something he missed. “Some things have value beyond gold and silver, Fawkes.”

“You didn’t strike me as the sentimental type.”

That earns Jamison a flat look. “You did not strike me as subtle enough for pickpocketing.”

“With the company you keep, you’re one to talk about subtle,” Jamison counters.

Hanzo rolls his eyes and slides the bracelet onto his wrist. “I told you, I have no intention of joining Talon no matter how persistent they are.”

“Not them!” Jamison scoffs, flapping a hand in dismissal. “The figjam brigade you picked up.” He takes satisfaction in watching Hanzo’s posture go stiff. “Yeah, I know all about you palling around with Overwatch. They suit you, you know that? Think so highly of themselves, when what they do’s no more legal than nicking that stuff for--oh, bloody hell, that was for Overwatch, wasn’t it?”

“They are trying to do what is right,” Hanzo states.

Jamison whines and fists at his hair. “You got me doing dirty work for Overwatch?” He sighs and starts to meander in the direction of his frag launcher. “Look dipstick, I know you’ve got this whole honor-redemption thing going on, but some of us ain’t in this for the politics. We want that payday, you get me?”

The other man flicks his gaze across the assorted spoils of the junker’s crimes and barks a humorless laugh, unimpressed. “If this is your payday, then perhaps you should look into a new line of work.”

Anger sparks at the poke at Jamison’s pride. “What, with you lot? Get stuffed. I’ll leave you to the gorilla and the cowboy and the cyborg. Oh!” Jamison snaps his fingers and points at Hanzo. “That’s your brother! The one you--”

“Choose your next words very carefully,” Hanzo growls, turning his glare on Jamison, whose weapon is just out of reach.

“Hey, I’m not the one that gave him the old slice-and-dice. Let me guess, he’s the one that gave you that bracelet--”

In the time it takes for him to be thrown through the glass window of his room, over the balcony, and down into the swimming pool below, Jamison admits that maybe Shimada has a point about being more choosy with his wording. He also thinks the wanker really needs to work on not interrupting people every other sentence.

Jamison hits the pool belly-first, flinging water out in all directions. Some splashes onto the sandaled feet of a woman lounging by the pool. Amélie glances over her sunglasses at the water seeping into her violet skin, shakes her head, and returns to her book.  _ Tourists. _

**Author's Note:**

> If you like that and want more, want to check out my art, or just want to chat, come on by my tumblr! You can find me under username wyntera. And if twitter is more your game, come and join me there, just look for @ThreeCatDesigns. You can now also find me as wyntera on Pillowfort!
> 
> And hey. Thanks.


End file.
